The Tower
by MinP1072
Summary: Another one from the Gutterbugs prompt-a-thon on Tumblr. Catherine Medici asked me for a Rapunzel-inspired story, and this is what happened…
1. Chapter 1

_I risked my life for you because I care about you. Deal with that._

Another night, unable to chase her words from his head — not with alcohol, not with drug-aided sleep, not with music or cards or _anything_. She echoes in his mind, her voice thick with emotion, her cornflower eyes swimming, her body tense in its borrowed finery, still shaking with the remnants of adrenaline and fear.

He droops wearily in a leather armchair, tumbler of Scotch dangling from the fingertips of one hand. It has been four long days and three longer nights since the auction. He has tried to give her space; has needed time of his own to rest and recover from what truly was an ordeal.

Now, he knows he won't make it through another night without seeing her, knowing she is all right; that her heart and spirit are still whole. That she still cares.

* * *

Her head aches like she is coming off a three-day bender that had ended in a concussion.

 _What the hell had happened?_

She'd gotten back to her motel after the auction, she's sure of that much. Then… then…

It was all blurry, like trying to see her memory through fogged over glass. She'd been upset — overwrought, really — the breakneck pace of that day and night, her first real undercover assignment, the Kings, Reddington–

Oh, oh, _Reddington_ — _Red_ , with a gun pressed to the back of his head, moments from death.

The image thickens her pain-induced nausea, her stomach roiling greasily; she rolls to her side in case she vomits. At least now she knows that she's lying down. She gingerly lets her eyes slide open to evaluate her situation. The light is dim, thankfully, but it means she can't make out much. She's lying in a smallish bed; it's not particularly comfortable, either. She's clothed in what looks and feels like a hospital gown and she feels stiff and cold, as if she's been lying still for a long time.

Her head snaps up as a banging thud breaks into her thoughts and light floods the room — she can't quite suppress a moan at the stabbing pain it brings. As her eyes adjust, she sees someone has come in, standing silhouetted in a square of light across from her bed. A door? A window? She's so dizzy…

"Hello, darling!" A tinkling voice comes from the shadowed figure, a voice that seems familiar. "Awake at last! I _do_ hope you're about ready to be useful."

* * *

She isn't there.

The dingy motel room is quiet and still, with nothing looking particularly out of place. She could be out, or working, but there is an air of emptiness to the room that doesn't sit right. One upside to living in a motel has become a notable downside — the room is tidied every day, whether it suits his purposes or not.

He pulls out his current burner and calls her again, hoping this time she'll answer, even if it's to tell him off. When it rings, he spins on his heel furiously.

It's there, on her nightstand, chirping away, and he goes hollow inside. She'd never leave her room without her phone. Where is she? Is she hurt? In danger?

He tries to still the torrent of his thoughts, to think logically. He'll need Dembe, he'll have to question the housekeeping staff… As he turns to go, he sees it.

The small, white envelope, his name scrawled across it in an all-too-familiar hand.

He opens it; reads its short, gloating message.

 _Oh no_ , he thinks, _Oh, Lizzie_.

Tucking the note away in his jacket, he takes a moment to run his hand over the soft grey fleece of her robe, laid neatly on the back of a chair. He brings it to his nose to try and catch her fading scent.

Now all he has to do is find her, find her and see her safe.

* * *

"Madeline Pratt," Liz says, her voice hoarse and rusty with disuse.

"Elizabeth Keen," the other woman returns. "That _is_ your _real_ name, isn't it?"

Liz shrugs awkwardly. There seems little point in dissembling now.

"Why am I here?" she asks. "What do you want from me? There's no one to pay ransom, if that's what you're thinking."

"Oh, I think I could get a good price for you," Madeline replies, her voice light and amused, her hand trailing over the end of the bed as she circles the room. "I think our _dear_ Raymond would give me whatever I asked for to ensure your safe return."

She laughs at Liz' flinch on hearing his name. "You don't like that, do you?" she says, sitting beside Liz on the bed. "That I can see it? His preoccupation with you, his _obsession_? If you think _everyone_ who knows him, who sees the two of you together can't see it, then you're even more foolish than I thought. But you listen to me, you little bitch," and her voice was suddenly tight with rage, her face pushed into Liz'. "He's _mine_ , do you hear me? _You can't have him_. And the best part is, _you_ are going to help me get him back."

Madeline pushes up from the bed in a rush and stalks back to the lit opening — it _is_ a window, Liz can see now — boosts herself onto the wide sill, then disappears out of it as if it were a door, heavy wooden shutters closing behind her.

Liz is left lying in bed, her aching head spinning, to wonder both what the _hell_ just happened, and what Madeline has in store for her.

* * *

They work quickly, in sync as always, the perfect fit. Dembe, running searches, gathering information wherever he can. Red, making phone calls — cajoling, manipulating, calling in favours wherever _he_ can, threatening when he must.

Another day has passed already, and he still hasn't pinned her down. All he knows for sure is that wherever she has taken Lizzie, it isn't on American soil. And it's a wide world out there.

He firmly blocks thoughts of what Madeline might be up to, and focuses everything he has on finding her. His fear spurs him like an angry hornet as he paces through his days.

* * *

She doesn't lie idle while Madeline is gone. As soon as she can bear it, she sits up, then stands, swaying a little as she takes stock of the room.

Like a prison cell, there's the bed, a toilet, and a bare sink — she supposes she's just lucky that there's plumbing at all. Beside the bed stands a piece of what looks like medical equipment — all tubes and dials and buttons — the use of which she cannot even guess at, but which sends a little thrill of fear through her. Surprisingly, a large mirror hangs on the wall kitty-corner to the bed. The room is circular, walled in dull grey stone, and unlit. What light there is in the room comes through cracks in the wooden shutters on the large-ish window.

Most importantly, there is no door.

There's no way in or out of the room but the window Madeline used. When she manages to drag herself over to it and shove open the heavy shutters, she quails.

Like the worst cliché ever, she's locked in a tower, at least ten stories off the ground.

 _What on earth is she going to do?_

* * *

A lead, a thin one, thanks to Dembe's relentless searches. Six months previous, a construction contract, stonework. No location, or details they can use.

But it's something.

He needs to go farther back, he thinks, maybe all the way back to a year ago when he last saw her before the Kings.

What baffling game is she playing, here — and how long has she been playing it?

* * *

When Madeline comes back, Liz is waiting, seated quietly on the bed. She's hoping to get more information out of her captor — or at least some food. She's been in this tower at least a day, and has had nothing but a few handfuls of water from the sink.

The sudden clatter of the shutters makes her jump, but she doesn't move. Since she's watching this time, she sees that Madeline is using a cherry picker to get up to the window. This time, there's a man with her, carrying a heavy black bag that makes Liz suppose he is a doctor. She thinks uncomfortably of the machine behind her.

Madeline is smiling, and Liz is sure that it doesn't bode well for her.

"And how are we this afternoon?" Madeline trills. Her smile widens, and she tosses something over to Liz, who catches it in reflex. "Hungry?"

Liz looks at the object in her hand. It's an apple, large and shiny and red. She looks at it for a long moment, aware not just of the risks but of the irony of it all. She's too hungry to care too much, though, so she bites into it and eats eagerly.

The man, the doctor, moves around the bed silently and starts to fiddle with the machine beside the bed. Not wanting to think too much about what he might be doing, Liz focuses on Madeline. She has stepped into the room and is admiring herself in the mirror, fussing with her hair.

"I rather thought that you had no further use for Reddington," Liz remarks, tone casual. "Since you sold him out to the Kings."

Madeline turns to look at her, eyes narrowing. "That," she says icily, "was merely the next move in a game we have been playing for years — a callow _child_ like yourself could never hope to understand."

"A game?" Liz is suddenly furious, rage welling up like bile in her throat. She swings out of the bed, anger giving her strength. "A _game_? You gave him to _monsters_ , who sold him to a man who wanted his _head. Literally_. I saved his life with seconds to spare, _seconds_." She stops herself with difficulty, breath heaving, fists clenched.

She sees with some satisfaction that Madeline has paled, that her eyes are shocked and wide. A heavy moment passes as they stare at each other, and then Madeline seems to shake herself.

"If not you, it would have been something else," she says coolly. "Raymond has an unerring ability to get himself out of trouble, and I'm sure this would have been no exception. He doesn't need _you_ , that much is certain."

She turns back to the mirror, smoothing her hair, tracing her own features with a delicate finger. Liz sits back on the bed, at a loss. Was Pratt truly this cavalier, this foolish? Or does she actually believe that her actions had no consequences?

"We're ready to begin, Ms Pratt." The doctor's voice interrupts Liz' thoughts, and she turns her head to look at him. His face is impassive, but she thinks his eyes hold a little worry.

"Get on with it then," Madeline snaps. "I don't need to watch, do I?"

"Certainly not if you do not wish to," the doctor answers politely. He looks down at Liz and gestures. "You should lie down, Miss," he says. "It will be much easier."

He has a thick accent, some kind of Slavic, she thinks, but she can't place where. She's evidently much farther from home than she'd hoped, and her heart quails a little. She lifts her legs onto the bed and reclines, leaning against the wall. It won't hurt to cooperate for now, until she knows more about what's going on.

"What are you going to do?" she asks, damning herself for being unable to keep the fear out of her voice. "What's that machine for?"

"Oh, don't worry," the doctor says, relatively kindly. "It won't hurt you. This is a _plasmapheresis_ machine, yes? It draws your blood, then separates the plasma from the blood cells, and returns the cells to you. You may become a little tired, sleepy, but it won't hurt, okay?"

She nods, not able to think of a reasonable reply, mind whirling with horrified thoughts about why on earth Madeline Pratt wants to collect her blood plasma.

The doctor lifts her arm and ties a rubber strip about halfway between her elbow and shoulder. He rotates her arm so her palm faces up, then lets it rest along her thigh.

"Make a fist, please," he asks politely, neatly swabbing the inside of her elbow with an alcohol wipe.

She complies, because she can't fight them both, because Pratt almost certainly has a gun. She sits passively while he taps her arm gently with a gloved finger, finding a vein. Offering a faint smile, he neatly slides a needle into her arm, and they both watch her blood begin to flow down the tube attached.

The machine whirs and clicks gently, something is spinning and circling, flashing red.

Her fear threatens to choke her, and she thinks of Red with a desperation that surprises her.

* * *

A dead end.

Their only lead has turned into a dead end, literally — the mason on the other end of the stonework contract is dead, body found six weeks after the date of the contract, in a slum on the outskirts of Vienna.

"She certainly won't be there," Red says aloud, pacing, thinking. "Madeline would never be so careless. But we can likely concentrate our efforts in Europe, likely in the East. She has contacts almost everywhere…" He trails off as his thoughts outstrip his voice, racing to contacts of his own, people he can use, places he can search…

"Raymond." Dembe's calm voice breaks into his thoughts, and he pauses, turning to look at his oldest friend. "We can't keep going like this. It's taking too long. The FBI must be looking for her, too — if we connect with–"

"No," he interrupts firmly, mind rebelling at the thought. "Not in this, Dembe, no. Madeline will see that ham-fisted Ressler coming a mile off, and Lizzie…" His voice trembles a little, and it takes some effort to wrench himself back under control. "It's the wrong tool. This isn't the time for a blunt instrument."

"Well, then," Dembe replies, placing a heavy hand on Red's shoulder in comfort, in strength. "Perhaps a visit to the DMV?"

* * *

It's after the fifth, or maybe it's the sixth, time the doctor comes that she starts to despair. He comes every day to take her blood, and although at least part of it is replaced, she knows she is weakening.

Madeline comes only once a day as well, to bring her a small meal before the doctor does his work, apparently not finding it necessary to take any particular care of her. Liz doesn't know if it's in contrast to her own sharpening pallor, shadowed eyes, and shaky limbs, but Madeline looks increasingly healthy as the days pass — her hair golden and shining, her skin vibrant and creamy, her eyes bright and alive.

This time, while Madeline is absorbed in her reflection and the doctor is bending over her to insert the needle, she clutches at his arm.

"Please," she whispers, as quietly as she can. "What's really going on? What is she doing to me?"

He shoots a nervous glance at Madeline, but she is lost to the world around her, humming softly.

"It is just what I told you," he murmurs back. "I take your plasma, yes? That is all."

"But _why_?" she insists, desperate for a glimpse of her fate. "What is she doing with it?"

"She…She takes it," he answers, his whisper grim. "I inject her with it, right after we take it from you, every day."

He slides his eyes Madeline's way again, and inserts the needle, starts the process once more.

"She has been doing research, you see. She thinks she will be remade, be young again. You aren't the first…" His voice trails off as Madeline turns around, smiling.

"Are we done yet?" she trills. "I don't have all day, you know!"

"It takes time," the doctor replied defensively. "You know this. Some more time is needed."

She rolls her eyes. "Well, then. We'll just wait."

She sits on the end of the bed, watching them, beaming.

* * *

God, he hates it here.

The smells, the humming noises, the people, the dismal air of defeat and resignation. Mostly the smells.

He watches Glen through the greasy window, fingers tapping absently at his knee. Now isn't the time to make him wait, and he thinks their last phone conversation may have actually had an impact, because it's only twenty minutes before Glen waves him in.

"Red," Glen greets him. "It's been a while. How've you been?"

"Busy," Red replies briefly, unwilling to do the dance, even for a minute this time around. "What have you got?"

"Well, _I've_ been poorly, off and on, not that you care, with my sciatica acting up and…"

The typical litany trails off as Red gets deliberately to his feet. He leans over, placing his hands firmly on the desk, and levels his eyes on Glen's, letting every iota of the rage, frustration, and fear he has suffered over the last two weeks show in his face.

"Listen to me, you odious little rodent," he says, his tone pleasantly conversational. "If you don't tell me what you know and tell me now, I will paint this office with your intestines."

Glen sits back, looking away. "All right, all right," he says, testily defensive to cover his alarm. "I've got what you wanted, _as always_ , I might add. There's no need to treat me like a schmuck."

"Where is she?" Red demands, not moving, not giving an inch.

"Madeline Pratt," Glen says, handing him a slim folder. "Currently spending her time in Jesenik, at the home of oil baron Petr Mladek. Everything you need to locate her is in there."

"Czech Republic," Red muses, straightening up, mind racing ahead, making plans. "I can work with that…"

"She's been there a while," Glen continues, catching his attention again. "Months. Interestingly, there have been three unsolved missing persons cases in the Olomouc region in past three months or so. All young women, late-twenties, early-thirties. Could be your girl isn't the first."

Red nods his thanks, face impassive as his stomach clenches and burns.

"She'll be the last."


	2. Chapter 2

Moving in this part of the world requires an amount of subtlety and stealth that chafes and frustrates. He needs to find her, _now_ , needs to see her safe, needs it so viscerally at this point he thinks he might choke on it. Without Dembe's constant, cool-headed, soothing presence, he would have gone mad long before.

Now, they wait for the cover of darkness to approach the lonely tower. They had located Madeline without difficulty — Glen's information is unquestionably valuable, and worth the irritations of getting it. She's living it up, enjoying the life of the billionaire with this Petr Mladek.

When they first arrived in Jesenik and there were no signs of Lizzie, there were a terrible few hours when he thought he had failed. It wasn't until Madeline left the house alone shortly after midday, meeting up with a strange man and haring off, that they discovered the tower, hidden away in the foothills.

They'd gone back to town a discreet while after Madeline and her mystery companion, to make plans and prepare.

They have been ready for hours now, and Dembe is about ready to sit on him to keep him from moving too soon.

He just needs her safe.

* * *

She's so tired.

The days have started to run into one another, all the same, with nothing to mark them but the daily blood draw. Her body cannot keep up with the pace of Madeline's greed; she is thinner, diminished, weak, dizzy. Everything has taken on a hazy quality that makes her a little afraid.

She's telling herself a story, a story of herself and Sam when she was a child, just to pass the time, when she hears it. Maybe. A noise? There are never noises at night, other than birds and animals. She must have imagined it. Or maybe she's hearing things now.

She wonders how much longer she has to live.

Then she hears it again. _Clatter clatter_. Something that might be a voice.

She gets to her feet, slowly, carefully. She's learned on her trips to the toilet that moving too quickly will make her fall, or sometimes vomit. On one regretful occasion, both. Supporting herself against the wall, she makes her way to the wide window and leans against the shutters for a long moment.

 _Clatter clatter_.

She can feel the vibration against her body, and huffs in frustration. _I'm trying_ , she thinks, _I'm coming_. It takes everything she can muster to push the shutters open even partway. It's just enough for her to push herself into the gap and look out, look down.

Vertigo sweeps over her, and for one awful moment, she thinks she will fall. It's the voice that anchors her again, floating up out of the dark, warm and deep and _familiar_. She feels the recognition of it right to her bones, and it gives her clarity and strength, strength enough to stay lucid.

"Lizzie," it says, "Lizzie, hang on, sweetheart."

She smiles involuntarily, sweetly. She looks down at the flash of light — the newcomer has lit a lantern, and made a small pool of gold around himself and his companion. She can just make out his features, creased in concentration as he pulls on a pair of slim black gloves. His companion is busy fussing with his clothing — doing what, she can't tell.

He raises his face to the window, and the relief that floods her body makes her feel faint again.

"Just a few more minutes," he says, his voice layered with calm reassurance. "I'm coming up."

She laughs, in spite of herself, her voice so cracked and faint that she barely makes a sound.

"How?" she calls, as loudly as she can. "I can't exactly let down my hair."

He laughs too, at that, rich and warm with relief and pleasure.

"Don't be ridiculous, Lizzie," he chides gently. "This isn't a fairy tale, and I'm not your prince. Just sit tight — I'll be there before you know it."

He looks away again, adjusting something, speaking quietly to the man waiting patiently beside him.

 _Red_ , she thinks happily. _Red's here_.

* * *

He lets Dembe readjust the coil of rope looped across his chest one more time.

"Are you sure about this, Raymond?"

Red grins. "Not in the least, my friend. But it has to be me. I'm sure," and he pauses to glance up at the stone edifice in front of him, "it will all come back to me once I get going."

Dembe sighs, but steps in close, bends down, and holds out his cupped hands. Red puts a foot in and reaches up as Dembe lifts, gripping the crevices in the stone with his fingers, digging in his toes, taking advantage of the sticky soles of his climbing shoes.

And he starts to climb, movements gradually becoming more sure — he knows he was right. It is coming back to him. _Use your legs_ , he reminds himself, _push up, don't pull_.

He feels, for what may be the first time in his life, a little bit heroic.

* * *

She leans on the windowsill, watching in dreamy astonishment. Raymond Reddington is rock climbing. Rock climbing up a tower wall to rescue her. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or cheer him on. So she just watches.

It's a sight to see, too. It's easy to forget, when he's cloaked in his usual armour of three-piece suits and savoir faire, just how strong he is. Watching him climb, lit by the halo of the lantern beneath him, you can't miss it.

Clad in black, from watch cap to shoes, he moves with almost the same easy assurance up the wall as he does across a ballroom. HIs arms, searching and holding his body in place; his legs, supporting him, driving him smoothly upward.

 _It's almost like a dance_ , she muses absently. _I bet the view is even better from the ground_ …

And she watches, as he makes his way up the tower, to see her safe.

* * *

The climb seems to take eons.

 _Reach, step, push; reach, step, push._

He doesn't look up, stays focused on the wall in front of him, keeping it clean and safe. He is damp with perspiration even in the cool night air; by the time the wooden shutters are within reach, his breath is short and rough.

The last pull, onto the wide sill, is the hardest, requiring mostly the strength of his arms to bring him into the opening. But he does it, driven by need, concentrating his remaining strength. And then he's there, wedging his shoulder between the shutters, widening the gap.

He crouches on the sill, balancing carefully. When he looks up, she's right there, waiting for him, smiling like he is the answer to every question she ever had.

"Red," she breathes, reaching out to touch his face gently, as if she needs to make sure he is real. When she makes contact, her smile widens, her eyes start to swim. "Took you long enough."

He huffs out a laugh, then hops down into the room. There's no light but the moon trickling in, but he can still see her gauntness, the unhealthy pallor of her skin, the deep set wells of her eyes. But still, she is whole, she is smiling at him, she is real.

He steps forward and wraps his arms gently around her, pulling her into the shelter of his body, the simple relief of it seeping through to his bones. He presses his lips to her hair and breathes her in; beneath the sour smells of her long days of captivity, the essence of her is still there.

"Lizzie," he says, murmuring into her, and it's all he needs.

She has curled right into him like she belongs, her delicate frame fragile in his arms, but real. Her breath is soft and warm against his neck, and then, a featherlight press of her lips, seeking. They share a moment of perfect peace, standing together, before the world intrudes. The sound of the engine is harsh and loud, and makes her tense and quiver against him in recognition.

"Oh," she whispers, panicky. "Oh no, she's here, why is she here, now?"

Red curses inwardly — despite the care they had taken, she must have known he was there. _Dammit_ , he thinks angrily. If they'd only had time to get back to the ground… Well, it is what it is. He releases Liz and turns to look out the window; sighs in relief. It's only Madeline, alone in the basket of a cherry picker, approaching slowly. Dembe can handle the driver, he knows, and he can, he _will_ handle Madeline.

She slides into the room from the basket without a twitch, familiar teasing smile on her face, her hands held out as if to welcome him.

"Raymond," she purrs, taking his hands when he doesn't move. "I wasn't expecting you. Whyever didn't you stop by the house, darling?"

Outlined by the glow of moonlight, the contrast between her and Liz is glaring. Madeline positively beams with health and wellbeing, her skin rosy and bright, her hair thick and long, her eyes keen and clear. He thinks she looks like she has shed a decade since he saw her last, and a terrible inkling of what she may have been doing teases at his mind.

"Madeline," he returns stiffly, withdrawing from her grasp and taking a step back. "I'm not actually in Jesenik to see _you_."

Her face falters a touch and she glances quickly at Liz, huddled against the wall behind him. She lets out a tinkling laugh.

"Don't be ridiculous. Why else would you come to this little corner of the world? There's nothing else here that could _possibly_ interest you."

"You're wrong again," he says heavily. "I'm here for Lizzie. Just stay out of my way, Madeline."

Her eyes flash, angry now, and she casts another contemptuous glance behind him. "For _that_?" she demands. "She's _nothing_ , Raymond, _less_ than nothing. The best of her is already inside _me_ , don't you see?" Her voice has changed again, becoming needier, cajoling. "Look at _me_ , not her. Aren't I beautiful? Aren't I young and lovely? I can be everything you want, I–"

"Stop." He cuts her off, not wanting to hear anymore; he can't stand it. "Are you mad? What is _wrong_ with you? Do you honestly think that I severed ties with you because you have gotten _older_? Because you weren't _pretty enough_?"

He has to stop to breathe, to keep from shaking her. All this, for what? A twisted, obsessive desire?

"But I've remade myself, darling. Just look at me, you'll remember how wonderful it was, how we always come back to one another in the end."

His eyes are grey chips of ice as he looks at her, his voice, when he speaks, is one of the most terrible things Liz has ever heard.

"When I look at you now, Madeline, I see nothing but an empty shell. If only you had found a way to renew the barren wasteland inside you, perhaps I'd take a second look."

Silence.

Then, an unearthly shriek of rage as Madeline throws herself at Red, clawed fingers aimed straight at his face. Liz watches anxiously, not wanting to distract him, not daring to interfere with no strength left in her, as Red grabs Madeline's wrists, as they grapple fiercely in front of the wide window.

Red should have the easy advantage, but Madeline is fueled by rage and hatred and obsession, and Liz' heart leaps into her throat as she forces him back, back, until his hips hit the windowsill; as she keeps pushing, screaming, her teeth bared over him, until he is bent over the rock, as they teeter together.

For one precarious moment, Liz thinks her world might end. Then, somehow, he shifts his weight, twists his upper body, and suddenly, Madeline is gone, her scream changed to one of panic and fear, fading away into the night.

Red flips his body and peers down, searching.

"Dembe," he calls coolly, "heads up."

He turns back into the room just in time, as Liz collapses into his arms.

* * *

She's in and out over the next several hours. Hazy, surreal images pass her by. Red, carrying her, as Dembe lowers the two of them to the ground in the abandoned cherry picker. Refusing to relinquish her to the steady bodyguard, cradling her in his lap as they drive away from the tower, from Madeline's crumpled body. Red's jet, quiet and opulent, his eyes on hers every time she manages to drag them open. His coat wrapped around her, to shield and protect, cocooning her in his scent. His voice, warm and soothing as he urges water on her each time. Quiet streets, leafy trees, the salty smell of the sea.

"Lizzie," he says now, quietly but firmly. "Wake up a little, sweetheart."

She's still dizzy and faint, weak and sleepy, but the hours of rest and the fluids he has pushed on her have helped. Her eyes flutter open, and there he is, right there hovering, where she has already come to expect him.

Simple happiness floods her, and she reaches out and touches his face again, because she can, because this is real. He covers her hand with his, pressing it into his cheek and smiling at her.

"Would you like to bathe before you lie down again? It might help you rest better."

"Oh," she sighs, her voice still little more than a whisper. "That would be absolutely lovely, but," and she truly hates having to say it, "I don't think that I have the strength. Maybe tomorrow?"

He smoothes her hair back with his free hand. "Well," he says slowly, "you can wait, if you want. Or, if you…if it wouldn't make you uncomfortable…I could help you. I promise you, Elizabeth, I won't…"

"Oh, thank you," she interrupts him, not caring about the implications, not at all concerned about her body at this point. "It would just be so wonderful to be clean again."

"All right then," he says, and wraps an arm around her to help her to her feet and guide her into a bright bathroom across the room. He eases her down onto a curved wooden stool, then busies himself getting the shower ready. When things are arranged to his satisfaction, he slips back into the bedroom, returning in short order stripped down to t-shirt and boxer briefs.

He crouches in front of her, looks into her face.

"Okay, sweetheart?"

She nods, sits docilely as he gently takes his jacket from her, then peels off the stained and reeking hospital gown. If the bruises and needle marks on her arms, the stark white of her skin, the strained hollow thinness of her body shock or disturb him, he is careful to let nothing show on his face. He just continues to handle her gently, raising her to her feet and walking her into the tiled shower, already steaming.

The hot water feels amazing — she's been cold for so long — and she sighs in pleasure and lets her eyes slip closed again. She feels Red's strong arm around her back, supporting her, his other hand coaxing her head back into the spray, stroking through her hair.

"Just relax," he says softly, so close to her that his breath teases over her cheek. "I'll take care of you, Lizzie."

And he does, such exquisitely tender care that she feels weightless and wondrous, every last inch of her washed clean, made new.

"Am I glowing?" she asks him dreamily, as he cards his fingers through her hair, rinsing out conditioner. "I feel like I must be glowing."

He laughs softly, the rumble of it in his chest making her tingle. "No, you aren't glowing," he answers, stroking, stroking. "But you are without a doubt the loveliest sight I have ever seen."

He reaches behind her to turn off the water, wet shirt rubbing against her skin. Lifting her easily out of the shower, he wraps her immediately in a huge, soft towel, patting her dry, then sitting her down again so he can take up another towel and rub at her hair. By the time he's satisfied, she's hanging onto consciousness by the merest thread, soothed into sleepiness, but not wanting to miss a moment of this time with him.

As he leads her back into the bedroom, she spots his clothes, folded neatly onto a chair in the corner.

"Red," she says sleepily, "can I wear your shirt? If I can smell you…I'll know that I'm safe."

His heart skips uncomfortably in his chest; he crushes her to him briefly, kissing her head, cheek, neck.

"Oh, Lizzie," he murmurs, his voice muffled against her skin, carrying an odd note she can't remember hearing before. "I thought I'd lost you."

"I knew you'd find me," she answers, burrowing contentedly into his embrace. "I knew."

* * *

A week passes, then two. She rests, regaining strength, letting Red fuss over her. He actually owns this house, he tells her, in the coastal town of Agde, France, on the Mediterranean Sea. Shielded from the street by lovely poplars, heavy with spring greenery, the cozy home quickly becomes her sanctuary. Red spoils her cheerfully, rarely leaving her side, talking endlessly to keep her amused, tempting her to eat with delectables that Dembe fetches from the local patisserie. She tells him of the horrors of her captivity, and he holds her while she weeps.

After the first few days, he coaxes her to walk with him through the quiet neighbourhood — they go down to the beach, where she revels in the fresh, salty air, the wide open space. It's too early in the spring for there to be many people about beyond the locals, but it's warm enough during the afternoons to be enjoyable. She collects the days like beads on a string, like softly-tinted photographs she will treasure, always.

He is as free as ever with his affection, taking her arm as they walk, holding her hand on the beach, bidding her goodnight with a kiss on the forehead or cheek. But she knows the feel of his hands on her now, so careful, so full of love, and she can't forget. She wears his shirt to bed each night, and wishes he would stay with her.

* * *

She realizes, eventually, that if she leaves it alone, so will he. So one night, unable to sleep despite the comfort of her bed, her full stomach, the long day in the sun, she takes the step she needs. Leaving her bedroom at the back of the house, she pads down the hall to the room she knows is his.

His door is still open a crack, lamplight shining through. She hesitates, then steadies her resolve and slips inside. He is sitting in a low chair facing the window, cigar in one hand, glass of Scotch in the other, and doesn't hear her come in. Her bare feet are noiseless on the carpeted floor, and she remains unnoticed until she perches on the arm of his chair, following his gaze out the window.

"You can't see the water from here," she observes quietly. "The trees are in the way."

"The price one pays for privacy," he replies drily, not moving, not looking at her, but enjoying the added warmth she brings. "Is there something you need, sweetheart?"

She takes a deep breath, lets her hand drop to rest on his leg.

"Just you," she says simply.

He does move then, bending to carefully stub out his cigar in the ashtray by his feet, then shifting so he can see her. She's still looking out the window, her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, her slim body enveloped in one of his crisp white button downs. Her hand is warm on his leg, and he thinks she's smiling.

"Can't sleep?" he asks cautiously. "Do you want to go for a walk? It's still warm out."

She turns to him then, her bare leg rubbing against his slacks. She looks at him, shirtsleeves rolled up, vest unbuttoned, face full of care and concern. _Mine_ , she thinks, determined, _mine_.

"No, Red," she says aloud. "I don't. And I don't think that you really do either."

His lips part to answer her, but whatever reply he might have made is stalled as she reaches out to cradle his face in her hands. She leans in, slowly, imprinting the moment, and kisses him full on the lips, soft and sweet.

Thoughts chase each other through his brain chaotically. But they all fritter away in the face of the reality of Lizzie, kissing him, eliminating his ability to think of anything at all but her. He slides his arm around her hips, tugging her gently into his lap. The warm weight of her is both reassuring and enticing, and she sighs contentedly into his mouth.

Her hands slip from his face, one curling around his neck, the other wrapping around his back to pull him close. She traces his lips with her tongue, wanting to taste, to experience every part of him. He opens to her, helpless under her gentle onslaught, hands gripping her hips, clutching at the shirt she wears. She tastes of toothpaste and something undefinable and light; she smells of salt and sand and Liz.

He desperately wants her skin under his hands, needs to touch her everywhere he can reach. He lets go of the shirt and slides his hands under it, smoothing the skin over her hips and bottom, running his right hand up the line of her spine. She quivers against him, sinking deeper into his mouth, fingers flexing where she holds him.

He firms up his grip underneath her and lifts, standing up with her in his arms. He strides over to the bed and lowers her to the mattress, leaning with her but breaking their kiss, at last, to unbutton her shirt. She opens her eyes to watch him, a hot electric blue that he can feel on his skin. She's completely bare under the shirt, and she watches his own eyes darken with hunger as he drinks in the sight. She grasps at the edges of his vest, peels it down his arms and tosses it. Her hands start to fumble their way back to his shirt, but she's distracted by his mouth, which in that same moment has fastened over her breast.

He proceeds to make a feast of her body that leaves her writhing in an agony of want, her breathless moans a symphony in his ears. He leaves no part of her untouched, untasted — he brings her to the precipice with teasing fingers and a clever tongue, suspending her there as long as he can, spinning out her pleasure. When she finally falls, it's with a whimpering cry that arrows straight through him, her arms and legs clutching around him before every part of her loosens and drops into the bed.

It's virtually transformative, the sight of her, and he burns and aches with a need too enormous to contain. He rises up just long enough to strip off his clothes, kicking them aside without a thought. He covers her body eagerly, her arms coming up to bring him in, and he slips inside her while her body is still throbbing, hot and wet.

She whispers his name into his neck, murmurs endearments and emotions and need. He, beyond speech, suckles at the soft places — the curve of her neck, the dent behind her ear, the skin above her collarbone — desperate to mark her, to make her his and his alone. He moves inside her like it's all he was ever meant to do; when his release finally comes, it's in long, powerful pulses that make him dizzy.

He drops into her, can't help it, he's lost now, lost to her as surely as he ever was, breathing fast and desperate into her neck, arms wriggling under her to keep her close. She wants to laugh her triumph, her joy in him; to reassure him with words and touches; to wrap them both in the blankets and cuddle him back to himself — but she can't do any of those things, can only lie with him, stunned and shaken.

 _When it comes at last_ , she thinks drowsily, _it's more powerful than any fairy tale_.


End file.
